


The Prince's New Clothes

by lucianlibrarian



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magic, Angst with a Happy Ending, As Usual Prompto Gets All the Funniest Lines, Canon Disabled Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Disability, Explicit Sexual Content, Feels, Ignoct Indoor Gift Exchange, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Porn with Feelings, The Emperor's New Clothes with a Twist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:07:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24482524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucianlibrarian/pseuds/lucianlibrarian
Summary: He can make youanything—for a price.Or so they say of Ignis Scientia, wizard clothier, the "man with a magic needle" who can sew clothes that will transform you into whatever you wish. But Ignis is hiding a lot of secrets, and when the King of Insomnia hires him to design clothing for Crown Prince Noctis, it isn't long before he realizes he won't be able to hide them forever.Written forZarineAngelfor the Ignoct Indoor Gift Exchange. Apologies for the last-minute posting, but it seems my story really needed a lot more time to be told. I really hope you enjoy this (slightly different) take on Ignoct! ♥
Relationships: Noctis Lucis Caelum/Ignis Scientia
Comments: 24
Kudos: 90
Collections: The Ignoct Indoor Gift Exchange





	The Prince's New Clothes

_He can make you royalty,_ they whisper _. A warrior. A siren. A god._

_For a price._

Or so they say of me, the only clothier in the Sagefire District. Here, where wizards peddle their spells and secrets, I sell stitches. My customers pay handsomely for custom fashions designed to make their wildest dreams come true.

Take this hideous aristocrat here today for his final fitting. He’s traveled gods-only-know-how-far to the Crown City of Insomnia, ready to pay me my weight in gold for a suit to wear during his nuptials.

“I must look gallant, ravishing!” he’d demanded during our initial consultation. “I want my bride to be overcome with delight when she sees the man chosen for her. She must not be disappointed in me or my looks!”

As I smooth the lines of his waistcoat, I resist the urge to laugh, knowing that these jobs are the easiest. Free riches, for all intents and purposes. You see, I have a secret: my clothes don’t actually provide any real benefits. They merely trick people into _thinking_ they do. It’s all a very clever glamour I’ve perfected.

There are a few notable immunities to the enchantment. Powerful wizards, of course, as are all under the influence of the right magics—not that there are many stronger than me. Cats, whose eyes pierce the Veil. Those damned _magitek_ goggles. And children, who know a game of pretend when they see one.

Consider, though: who’d tell this man the truth of his appearance? Certainly no one in his retinue, and not on his wedding day. And let’s not forget how many servants he’d have on hand to paint his face, freshen his skin. People always look their finest when they’re getting married. It’s one of those rules of the world.

In any case, my clothes are immaculate. I take pride in my work, glamour or no.

* * *

One morning, Regis Lucis Caelum, King of Lucis, slips into my shop, a single bodyguard at his side.

“Clarus, please,” he says. The bodyguard nods once and exits, assuming a post outside. “Ignis Scientia, I assume you know who I am?”

“What can a humble tailor do for His Majesty?” My bow is deep, my tones honeyed. We both know I am more than a tailor.

“More like what you can do for my son.” His Majesty takes a seat at my cutting table. “When Noctis was just a boy, he was attacked by Marilith, Queen of the Nagas. Ever since, he’s been…” King Regis pauses, heaves a breath like he’s been holding it for a century. “He’s almost like a serpent himself. Wary, distant, slow to trust, quick to either rear back to strike or slither away from contact. He’s even temperature sensitive, like a reptile. There are whispers that Noctis has been claimed as her Consort, but I endeavor to silence them.”

All know of the Crown Prince’s childhood accident, that he doesn’t make public appearances because of it. But my my, this is news indeed. “Where do I fit in?”

“Before the attack, the Oracle Across-the-Sea spoke of a great destiny. But afterward, Noctis wasn’t the same, and the Oracle isn’t certain he’s even capable of standing in her presence, much less walking the path once preordained for his feet. My son must rise to the occasion, and I want you to make his clothes.”

“You want me to dress Prince Noctis for a…date with destiny?”

King Regis chuckles for a moment before his voice becomes deadly serious. “Several, if I have my way. He _must_ become a hero, and I need you to make him a hero’s wardrobe.”

I consider this for a moment. “No one’s ever asked for so much.”

“No one’s ever had greater need. I will not live forever, and there are forces—” He stops, frowns. “But I’m getting ahead of myself. In any case, close your shop. Name your price. I must have you on retainer for as long as it takes.”

“You seem quite confident you can afford me.”

“Well, I _am_ the king.” He smirks, humming and rubbing his beard. “That said, your reputation for expensive tastes does precede you, and unless I’m mistaken, the Leiden violet tunic you’re wearing is worth more than this building.”

“I didn’t realize,” I say, raising an eyebrow, “that His Majesty knew rare fabric dyes.”

“Blame the late queen. She loved Leiden violet.”

I grin before quoting an astronomical figure.

He _can_ afford me.

* * *

Apparently, no one sees the prince without going through his companions. Wiry, freckled Prompto oversees Noctis’s education in the mundane areas of science, literature, and history; muscled, tanned Gladiolus trains Noctis’s body and mind in all matters martial and philosophical. The two are his two closest friends and vet almost everyone who enters the Citadel, inner sanctum of the royal grounds.

“Sorry,” Gladiolus says, his voice low and bored, “but the Crown Prince has no need for another valet.”

“I beg your pardon! I’ll have you know that Ignis Scientia is more than a mere valet and that King Regis Lucis Caelum hired me _personally_!”

“Wait wait wait, you’re _the_ Ignis Scientia?” Prompto asks, circling around his larger coworker. “The man with the magic needle?”

It is difficult to resist the urge to snicker, so I don’t. “Finally, _someone_ who’s heard of me. Did His Majesty not tell you I was coming?”

Prompto glares at Gladiolus for a few seconds before punching him in the arm. “Idiot! He’s not a valet applicant, he’s the wizard King Regis hired! You know, the one your father took him to see yesterday? We’re _supposed_ to let him in!”

“I swear, no one tells me anything,” Gladiolus mutters under his breath before puffing his chest in my direction. “Anyway, what’s a slip of a man like you gonna do that we can’t?”

I cross my arms and join Prompto in glaring. “According to the king, I’m to prepare His Highness for his reunion with the Oracle-Across-the-Sea.”

Gladiolus guffaws, slapping his companion’s shoulder hard enough to knock him forward with a soft _oof_. “Ha! Listen to this one! _His Highness_! Last thing Noct needs is another servant kissing his ass.” He stalks off, not even bothering to look back as he adds, “If anyone needs me, I’ll be in the Crownsguard facilities. Make sure you send the Princess my way when you’re done with him.”

A deep sigh later, Prompto says, “Don’t take it personally, Master Scientia. Gladio’s a good guy, but he takes a while to warm up. It’ll help if you go work out with him.” A wicked light sparkles in the blond’s violet-blue eyes. “It’ll _really_ help if you defeat him at something.”

* * *

Prince Noctis isn’t what I expect.

To be honest, I don’t know what I expected.

No, I’m lying to myself again.

I expected a monster. When King Regis told me that Noctis had been attacked by Queen Marilith—that he was like a serpent—I surmised, based on his lack of public appearances, that he must be hideous.

Prince Noctis is far from hideous; he is, however, oversleeping.

“Noct!” Prompto, who has joined me today for introductions, shakes the prince by his shoulders. “Get up! The wizard your father hired is here!”

A single eye opens. Peers at Prompto, then me. Widens a little. “Hey, you can’t let people in here when I’m not dressed!”

I smile. “That’s the point, Your Highness. Ignis Scientia, wizard clothier. I’ll be dressing you from this day forward.”

The prince opens both eyes, sits up, and cocks his head at me. “You sure you’re a wizard, Ignis? You don’t look old enough.”

Prompto sucks air through his teeth. “Noct, remember your etiquette. Wizards and other recognized members of the Colleges of Magic take the title _Master_ unless—”

“It’s fine, Prompto. We’re still feeling each other out.” I wave a hand, chuckling a little at the prince’s sideways compliment. “Besides, Highness, not all wizards are bearded old men, and even the ones that are were young once.”

* * *

It takes me a while to wheedle Prompto out of the room, longer to convince Noctis to strip.

“Why can’t I wear my undertunic?” he asks, voice pitching upward in panic.

“It’ll interfere, and if my clothes are to fit you properly, I must take the most accurate measurements possible.” My expression softens. “Your Highness, please understand—I’ve looked at many bodies in my time. There’s nothing you can show me that I haven’t seen, so there’s no need to be shy. I won’t judge you.”

Noctis stares into my face for several moments, and I’m struck by the ferocity of his gaze. Does he look at everyone like he’s trying to claw behind their eyes, through their masks?

I find myself listening to his breath slow before he finally says, “I…I think I believe you.”

He untucks the hem, pauses, and—as if afraid he’ll lose his nerve in the middle of the process—whips the garment over his head and flings it across his chamber. He then pulls the ties on his braies, loosening and removing them delicately. Limping slightly as he steps out of the pooled linen.

“Thank you for your trust, Your Highness.”

“Noct.”

“Pardon?”

“If you’re going to see me naked, Ignis, you might as well call me Noct.”

“Very well, Noct.”

I see immediately why he does not want to be exposed. Scar tissue—the physical reminder of his encounter with Queen Marilith—gnarls down his back, ending just below his buttocks. Then, a petal-sized mark, pale blue. The Oracle’s healing brand. I’d know it anywhere.

Noctis shivers and shrinks, and it isn’t just because my fingers and tapes dance across his flesh.

“You’re cold, aren’t you?” I whisper a few words to warm the air around us.

“How’d you do that?”

“Fire was my major area at the College of Magic, but the money’s not as good now that there’s flashpowder and all that fancy _magitek_.”

He stills, frowns. “This really is just a job then, huh?”

“Is there something wrong with making a living?”

“No, but with power like yours, you could be anything.”

There’s something in the prince’s tone that burns hotter than any fire I’ve ever set. It _stings_. I can’t remember the last time heat bothered me so much. No, that’s a lie, too. “Well,” I say, “never you mind all that, Noct. I’m here for _you_ now. So, why don’t you tell me about that limp and how long you’ve noticed that linen bothers your skin?”

* * *

Based on our interview and my observations, I decide to take a day and observe Noctis’s activities before I begin drafting my designs. No one with that much sensitivity should have hastily made clothes.

His sessions with Prompto are largely uneventful, save for their _magitek_ work. Prompto has a knack for it, and Noctis has clearly absorbed many of his mentor’s lessons. However, the prince lacks a master’s finesse or patience.

“What was that supposed to be?” I ask after his build explodes.

Noctis shrugs. “Element absorber. If it worked right, the energy inside could enhance fire, ice, or lightning spells. Or something.”

“Why not make it work right then? That sounds valuable to the right person.”

He is silent for a long time. I’m about to give up on seeking an answer when he finally says, “No reason to.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not the right person.”

Prompto has no insights into the prince’s reluctance either. “I’ve brought this up to King Regis multiple times,” he says, “and every time, I’m told to just leave the matter alone.”

* * *

I take lunch with Noctis and both of his tutors, during which time Gladiolus insists I call him Gladio because, as he notes, I’m not his father about to punish him.

That’s two of three with nicknames, so I take the hint. “Do you have another name you wish to be called, Prompto?” I ask.

“Oh!” The blond shrugs. “Prompto’s fine.”

“I call him Blondie all the time,” Gladio says.

“Somehow,” I snort, “I do not feel like that I’ve earned the right to use such a nickname.”

Noctis chuckles quietly. “Remember when I called you ‘Tiny’ for a while because of the puppy?”

“I thought you were making fun of me. I wasn’t exactly tiny myself!” He looks over at me, holds his hands out in an impression of a rounded belly.

“I didn’t give a shit! You had a _puppy_!”

“Language, Noct!”

“Fuck language, you had a _puppy_!”

In spite of myself, I burst into laughter.

Gladio joins in. “Look at that, the wizard understands jokes!” Ahh, at my expense. “Didn’t think they had it in them, honestly—all that serious shit about the balance of the elements and sanctity of the stars.”

“You’ll find I’m not like most wizards. I’ve lived a life beyond my magic. Trained with the Dragoon Knights at one time.”

“Oh yeah? You know Commodore Highwind?”

Do I know Commodore Highwind, of all the— “ _Aranea_ was my mentor. Ask her about ‘Specs’ sometime.”

Gladio nods, grunting approval, while Noctis perks up. “You wear spectacles?”

“Well, back when I fought, yes. Now, only when I sew.” I shrug. “Helps with the detail.”

He mumbles something unintelligible. I can almost see the gears turning in his head.

* * *

We all enter the Crownsguard facility, and Gladio says as he takes his place on one side of a practice floor, “I know you’d usually be on deck with me today, Blondie, but can you tap out? I want Princess to work with his sword a bit more.”

“Sure.” Prompto bows and takes a seat next to me on the sidelines. “Gladio usually has me assist with sparring matches, as well as firearms and projectiles training. There aren’t many in the Crownsguard cleared to work with Noct directly, and the best of the Kingsglaive have their own business.”

“Ahh, I see.” I don’t, really. The Citadel’s internal politics are too complex for a rookie.

“In any case,” he adds, “you should watch.”

Noctis draws a black blade, and the magic practically rattles my teeth. Relics that powerful are so rare, wizards can go their entire lives without ever seeing one—and here, the prince is about to use one for a _sparring match_?

Meanwhile, Gladio shrugs a sword almost as large as him from one shoulder to the other. He makes it look easy, like draping muslin on a mannequin. I swallow. Regardless of my poor impression of the man, I’d assumed Gladio must be extraordinary to be entrusted with the Crown Prince’s physical well-being. Clearly, I’d underestimated him.

Gladio smirks. “Your move, Noct. Advance!”

I blink, and Noctis is across the floor. In his face. Blade to blade. Gladio twists his massive greatsword to guide the path of Noct’s sword down and away, and as black steel slides away from its target, Noct pulls backs.

“How did—” I start to ask, but before I can finish getting the words out, my question is answered. The prince flings his sword in a line behind Gladio, disappearing in a shower of blue sparks and reappearing with his hand on the hilt a nanosecond later.

I have just watched Prince Noctis Lucis Caelum—a young man whose nerves scream at linen’s tooth, whose knee gives and back buckles when he walks without a staff for too long, whose head swims in the heat and the cold, whose heart races when he gets up too fast or doesn’t sleep enough—teleport across the room.

Only the Kings of Yore had those powers, the Royal Magics.

And no one has seen Royal Magic performed in centuries.

* * *

It’s late when I hear a tentative knock on the door to my new chambers. “Come in,” I say.

Noctis pokes his head through the crack he’s made. “You’re awake?”

“Yes, well, I should ask the same of you.”

He pads into the room almost silently, surprising considering the limp he’s nursing tonight, and takes a seat on the edge of my bed. “Gladio and Prompto do their best to keep me on a schedule, but I…” Noctis looks down, runs his fingers through his hair. I find myself marveling at how the lamplight hits it, makes it shimmer like embroidered silks. “I have trouble sleeping. Might as well hear it from me before you _really_ hear it from me, if you catch my meaning.”

 _Oh._ “Then perhaps we can keep each other company.” _Wait, what am I saying?_ “I’ve a tendency to keep unusual hours, so if you see light under my door, feel free to join me.” _I work alone! In silence!_ “I certainly wouldn’t mind the company.” _No! I most definitely don’t need distractions or the attentions of this young man!_

Noctis beams, his ocean-blue eyes sparkling. “Really? That’d be great! I’ve been dying to see what you do, to be honest.”

“It’s…not that interesting. Certainly not as interesting as what you did with Gladio today.”

“You mean the warping?” He shrugs, blows a frustrated breath through his lips. “Everyone says it’s special, but I’ve been able to do it since I was little. It’s kind of hard to think of something you’ve been able to do almost all your life as special, especially when—” He flinches, a hand moving to the small of his back. “—when I couldn’t do anything to save anyone from Marilith.”

“You were a boy, hardly responsible for that.” Perhaps those words are cold comfort, ones he’s heard for years. Maybe a distraction instead. “I suppose I can understand how a thing you’ve known all your life isn’t so special to you. Here, let me show you a thing I can do other wizards can’t.” I flex my fingers before snapping, and the tips spark purple-white before my hand erupts into a heatless pink and purple fire.

“What _is_ that?”

I smile, feeling my eyes crinkle a little. “Faefyre. Go ahead and touch if you’re curious, it’s quite safe.”

Noctis holds his hand over the flames, lets them lick at his palms before he cups the light and scoops it toward himself. It dances there for a few moments before fading.

“It’s beautiful.”

“According to legend, faeries used it to lure human children beyond the Veil and turn them into daemons.”

“Are you a faery?”

“Of course not, but this ability is quite rare. I’m not surprised you haven’t seen it.” I pause for a moment and consider those _eyes_ of his again. So intense. Curious. Innocent. “Why, do you expect me to steal you away?”

Noctis stops looking at me and gazes out the window. “My father says you’re gonna make me the hero I’m supposed to be, but not even the old Oracle could do that. Luna says there’s no wizard alive that can fix me, so maybe you’re not really a wizard. Maybe you’re a faery.”

“By Luna, you mean Lunafreya, the current Oracle?”

He nods. “We’re friends, been writing each other for years. She already told me—the prophecies don’t say anything about me getting better.”

“Then what _do_ they say?” I ask, my voice hoarse.

“They say my feet are too weak to carry me to her alone. That before I could ever stand under my own power, I must first slither out of Queen Marilith’s grasp. Except you’ve seen what she did. There’s no getting out of that, not unless you’re sewing me a new skin.”

For the first time in the years I’ve been doing this, I wish I could.

* * *

Within a week, my requisitions list is expensive enough to raise even the king’s eyebrow.

Within two, I’m dragged before the council to defend my expenditures.

Noctis is there, just out of sight. He stares from behind his father’s shoulder with the eyes of a frightened animal.

I don’t need to defend myself and—having heard it all before—don’t react to their shouts and insults. When I finally sense the _what-have-you-got-to-say-for-yourself_ moment, I simply say, “My apologies. I’ll go find the other wizard clothier who sews cheaper miracles. Oh, wait. There isn’t one, is there?”

A tiny snicker echoes from the shadow behind the throne.

King Regis, a diplomat to the core, keeps his face carefully neutral. “No, there is not. And may I remind the council that I did promise Master Scientia that he could name his price. Therefore, your quarrel’s with me and my desire to ensure my son’s succession. I suggest you let him resume his work. The faster he completes it, the less we pay, am I right?”

“Quite right, Your Majesty.”

An eager pair of eyes follows me as I excuse myself to the roar of protests.

* * *

Prompto and Gladio trust me a little more after my clash with the council. Gladio passes around a bottle of behemoth whiskey at dinner, laughs as Noct recounts what happened, crows something about a “rite of passage” before demanding I pour myself a shot instead of taking dainty sips off the bottle.

Except my sips have been anything but dainty, so I’m drunk enough to think this is a good idea. “Aranea would punch me,” I say, measuring two fingers worth into the cup, “if I turned down a drink.”

“Good woman. Always liked her. She sent me a letter, y’know, said you were her best. Could’ve had your own company.”

Noctis watches me throw that whiskey back, hissing as it practically sizzles its way down. “Could’ve, but didn’t. All that _magitek_ was a bit much for me.”

“Why did an anointed Master join the Dragoon Knights anyway?” Prompto asks, wrenching the bottle out of my fingers so he can take a long swig.

Ah, my history. That most hated of subjects. Good thing I’m quite skilled at avoiding it. “I should be asking _you_ why a Besithia is serving the Lucis Caelums.”

Prompto coughs, spraying liquor across the table. “Whaaat?”

“Verstael Besithia is one of the three men responsible for Niflheim’s rise to power, and you’re practically a dead ringer for him in his youth. Trust me, I know what the father of _magitek_ looks like.” I pour myself another drink, swirl the liquid around my cup, and sneer. “I suppose this is the part where you tell me it’s all a coincidence, or maybe that _magitek_ is capable of producing pretty freckled blonds now.”

“Don’t be an ass, Ignis!” Noctis shouts, jumping up to rub his friend’s back. It surprises me how jealous I am, how much it bothers me to see him stumble over to offer consolation and support. _Why am I like this_?

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Prompto manages to croak. “We might as well tell him.”

“No way!” Gladio says. “What if he…” He wiggles his fingers at his temples. “Y’know, mind-controls ya?”

“He’s not _that_ kind of wizard, Gladio. He wouldn’t know what to do with my True Name if I painted it on the floor in dragonsblood and sylleblossom oil.” Prompto rolls his eyes. “Not that I could. I mean, I know I’m Verstael’s fifth-born, but I don’t even know what he intended to call me. He sent me to the Argentums almost as soon as the midwife finished swaddling me.”

My history lessons catch up with me. “You’re the oath-ward child exchanged as part of the ceasefire in the Tenebraean Accords.”

“That’s me.” Prompto flips a jaunty salute before taking another drink and slipping the bottle behind his back to Noctis. “Been living in the Citadel ever since. Never even seen Niflheim or my father, to be honest. But you’d know what he looks like, right? I mean, you’re a wizard.”

So much for that. “Shit, I’m sorry, Prompto.”

“Hey, play drunk games, win drunk prizes. Happens to all of us. Besides, you said I was pretty, right? That’s a compliment I’ll take!” He elbows Gladio. “Last nice thing this big oaf said to me while we were drinking was that I was the best shot he’d ever met.”

“Oi, none of that!” Gladio yanks the whiskey out of Noctis’s hands—who was too distracted to get even a sip in, if his expression of abject disappointment is any clue. “Princesses get to drink when they’ve earned the right! When do they earn the right?”

A heavy sigh accompanies the prince’s sing-song reply of, “When they crack their Shields.”

“Damned right. And you, Blondie! Stop trying to cheat! Same goes for you, Iggy!”

“Iggy? _Iggy_?!?” My face contorts in disgust at this unbidden nickname, but Noctis just falls over, giggling _Iggy Iggy Iggy_ over and over. It seems a monster is born.

* * *

My room is lined with sketches, and several mannequins cast to Noctis’s exact measurements are draped in toiles of my various designs. The sewing’s begun in earnest—delicate work with delicate fabrics that shouldn’t be interrupted.

And yet.

 _And yet_.

“You know,” Noctis says, his head tilting this way and that as he studies me, “you look like a different person with your spectacles on. But I don’t think it’s the spectacles. There’s something else.”

“Perhaps you’re seeing that I’m working very hard and need to concentrate, Noct.”

“No, that isn’t it, Iggy.”

I sigh. “Are you that obtuse, or is it an act?”

“I mean, that actually isn’t it, but you did say you wouldn’t mind company when you were working.” He smiles that radiant smile of his, and I don’t have the heart to go back on my word. Gods, what is wrong with me? Am I going soft? Is that why I’ve produced twice as many concepts as I intended? Why I care so deeply about my fabric choices, where I place my seams?

* * *

Contrary to popular belief, I don’t hole myself in my chambers and sew for days at a time. Meeting deadlines can sometimes inspire me toward extraordinary work sprees, but generally speaking, I treat my job like a job. Sewing is hard on the eyes; frequent breaks and sleep are necessities. Food is both requirement and pleasure, particularly in the Citadel, where the ingredients are among the best I’ve ever tasted. It almost makes me want to try my hand at cooking again, but I much prefer cooking for others than myself—and I haven’t cooked for anyone since—

_Stop._

When my frustrations mount, I find myself at Gladio’s door. He looks surprised but doesn’t question when I say, “Spar. Now.”

At the Crownsguard armory, I choose a polearm and a pair of daggers. My usual robe is no good for this, so I remove my belt, let it fall away. Down to my undertunic and breeches, I loop the belt back around my waist and lace the dagger sheaths through its frogs. With a quick fastening of my sleeves to free my wrists and avoid any snags, I head toward the the main sparring area.

When I finally enter, Prompto and Noctis are there, as are several other faces I don’t recognize. Word must travel fast in the Citadel.

“Best of three?” Gladio asks.

“How about first to five? Best of three will be over too quick.”

“No magic.”

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

“You’re pretty confident.”

“I’ve watched you. You’re no good at my style of combat.”

“Then get on with it.”

My first point takes all of six seconds.

Gladio doesn’t underestimate me after that. Our last match takes over ten minutes. He’s incredible, dislocating my shoulder at one point. I still win. Noctis looks on with something akin to awe. I can’t remember ever feeling this alive.

* * *

At last, I tell His Majesty that I’m done. Everything is done. Clothes for day-to-day wear around the Citadel. Clothes for ruling the kingdom. Clothes for addressing the council. Clothes for traversing the world. Clothes for fighting daemons and warlords and all that may challenge him.

A wardrobe for a wounded prince.

A wardrobe for a future king.

King Regis looks frail, haggard. The throne practically swallows him. “I’m glad. You’re welcome to leave, of course, but I would ask of you one last favor: accompany him to see the Oracle-Across-the-Sea. Noctis has grown quite fond of you, and this journey worries him—especially since his most recent letter from Lunafreya indicates that Niflheim has taken her brother, Ravus, hostage.”

Politics and war are far beyond what I signed up for. Besides, the longer I stick around, the more I risk getting caught. I need to get out of here. Only a fool would stay.

“For Noct?” I say. “ _Anything_.”

When I take the king’s hand to shake it, one of us trembles like a wounded bird.

* * *

Prompto, Gladio, Noctis, and I travel by carriage to Galdin Quay, where we will rendezvous with the head of the Crownsguard and take a ship to meet the Oracle. Gladio explains that a small team of Kingsglaive are already working in Niflheim to free Ravus and destabilize the Emperor. “My father covered the basics with me before we left. We’ll get more information from the Marshal during the crossing, but King Regis got word that the Chancellor was making moves at the Emperor’s behest. Thought he’d send some of the Glaives ahead to be ready for us.” He pauses, looks at Noctis with absolute trust. “Ready for _you_ , Noct.”

“I…I guess.” The prince scratches his neck, blushing slightly and fidgeting in his seat.

“Man, Iggy,” Gladio continues, “I don’t know how you did it, but he really does look ready. I didn’t believe you could do it, but now that I’m seeing it myself—you really are a miracle man.”

“Thank you.”

“We should be thanking _you_ ,” Prompto says.

“Just doing my job.”

Noctis turns and gazes at me. Those eyes again. And now I know what they remind me of. The waters of Galdin Quay after a storm, churn-dark where the sunlight hasn’t reached. He leans over and whispers, “I’m honored, Ignis.”

The more they talk, the worse I feel.

The carriage stops, and we climb out and walk toward the docks. Perhaps Noctis favors his walking stick a bit much, but I cannot argue with how regal he looks in his black and gold raiment. And the lack of shrugs and twitches tells me the fabric doesn’t irritate his scars.

As all eyes turn to marvel at the dashing prince— _oh, but he is rather dashing, even without all the glamour, isn’t he?_ —a wet kiss of wind presses against my neck.

“Isn’t this an interesting place to find you, my dear? I wonder what you’re calling yourself these days…”

I turn, looking for the slick purr from my long-abandoned past.

Nothing.

He _is_ here, though.

And before I can steady myself against the promise of reunion, I _see_ him. Talking to Noctis. Placing an unbidden hand on his shoulder. Apologizing that we’re out of luck, that between storms off Angelgard Isle and skirmishes between Niflheim and Galahd, passage to Altissia isn’t safe.

“Ahh,” the ghost of my past says, “but Your Highness, you keep such strong company. I’m sure you’ll be _absolutely_ safe traveling to the ports of Cape Caem instead.”

Noctis’s smile is thin, and he shrivels under the touch. “Thanks for the update, Sir…”

“Please, no titles. I’m a man of no consequence—merely happy to help the Crown Prince of Lucis and his gallant entourage.” He bows with a flourish of fabrics, some of them layers I made for him once upon a time. I’m somehow not surprised he wears so many now, considering the magics he turned to and the chill they brought to his skin.

* * *

It is early when Cor, the man Gladio identifies as the Marshal, awakens us with news: during our journey, a group of traitorous Kingsglaive, loyal to Niflheim, rose up and attacked the Citadel and Insomnia from the inside out. King Regis and his defenders were slaughtered, the people driven from their home.

Prince Noctis is now the king, and he must reach the Oracle-Across-the-Sea at her seat in Altissia as soon as possible to be anointed before the Emperor can lay claim to the throne.

“He can’t do that!” Gladio says.

Cor shakes his head. “That’s where Lord Ravus comes into play. He’s the ruler of Tenebrae and the Oracle’s brother, so it’s said he has his own magic. Plus, House Fleuret is only a few generations removed from House Lucis Caelum. That makes him Regis’s closest male heir after Noctis, as well as an Imperial hostage. We have no idea what they’ll make him do.”

The room is silent for several seconds before Noctis breaks it with a near-whisper: “What about the team my father sent to Niflheim?”

“No one knows,” the Marshal says with a shrug.

Noctis closes his eyes, as if lost in thought. “My father trusted his Glaives. Luna trusts Ravus. We should do the same.”

Prompto slaps a hand against the table. “Noct, this is serious. I mean, I understand that Lunafreya’s your friend and all, but you’re asking us to take it on faith that she’s right about her brother? And trusting the Kingsglaive after what just happened? That was our _home_ —”

“You think I don’t know that?” he cries, opening his eyes, now glassy with tears. “Haven’t you all been telling me that I’m supposed to do this? That I’m supposed to become king? Well, now I am. My father’s dead and now I’m king and we’re going to Altissia and we’re going to trust the people who set me on this path and guided me this far. And that’s Dad and the Kingsglaive and Luna and you guys. _All_ of you.” He turns to me, breathless.

I stare back, just as breathless.

* * *

Morale is low as we pass through Lucis, and what should have been a prince’s introduction to his people is instead a funerary procession. The three longtime friends, having lost their loved ones in the uprising, find themselves seeking each other’s company when we stop for the night. Sharing stories. Fighting back, and eventually letting loose, their tears.

I have no such sadness. My family is long dead. Any attachments to the Crown City were minimal. In fact, the only thing I truly cared about in the Citadel—

“Ignis?”

“Oh, Noct. You startled me.”

“Wouldn’t have if you hadn’t decided to set yourself up so far away from the main campsite.”

“You know I can make my own heat.”

“I know.”

He sits on the ground near me, despite what it must be doing to his back. I open my mouth to protest, but he says, “It’s okay, I can risk it for a little while. I’m worried about you, you know.”

I laugh, a sound like a series of quick breaths. “I don’t know why, Noct. I’m quite capable of taking care of myself.”

“You haven’t talked at all about what _you_ lost.”

“Don’t you remember? I gave up my shop to work for you. I didn’t have anything left.”

Noctis narrows his eyes. A lick of firelight catches in them, flaring the blue to life. “No family, no friends? Not even a girlfriend?”

“Gods, Noct, I haven’t taken a lover in ages!” I can’t help it and start to giggle hysterically. It’s completely the wrong reaction, knowing what I know. Having seen _his_ face in Galdin Quay, heard _him_ taunt me, watched _him_ touch the young king.

Seeing Noctis’s horrified expression, I clear my throat and pull myself together. “Sorry. It’s just that my last lover—he and I parted on very bad terms.”

“Oh. I didn’t know.”

“There wasn’t a reason you should. I didn’t say anything.”

“But you…” He fidgets, runs his hands through his hair. “You like men.”

Well then. “I was unaware my desires were a problem, _Highness_.”

Just as I start to stand, Noctis’s hand shoots out and snags my wrist. “No!” he says. “It’s not that. It’s…well—” His thumb strokes the inside of my arm, and his touch sears me like a brand. “It’s your mouth, okay? I can’t stop thinking about it. I keep looking at your lips and that little mark on your bottom lip and wonder if it would feel different against my lips if I kissed you but—”

He doesn’t get to finish because I drag Noctis into me and mash my mouth against his before I can lose my nerve.

Never in my life have I been so glad to have used another man’s leverage against him.

* * *

Three things change after that kiss.

One: I start spending my nights with Noctis. We learn to give and take pleasure with teeth and tongues, fingers and hands. We hold each other and talk, kiss slow and sleepy when the talking becomes too much.

Two: Noctis begins to sleep through the nights more often, to favor his walking stick less during walks and hikes, to have fewer bad days. The pain never fully recedes—and never will, he says, as the Oracle said his fate always included his scars.

Three: Our travels grow increasingly difficult. If it isn’t Niflheim _magitek_ battalions, it’s stampeding garula or swarming killer bees or havocfang prides. At night, my magic is enough to ward off the daemons when we must camp outdoors, but their numbers increase nightly.

Prompto is first to voice what we’re all thinking: “Man, they really don’t want us to get to Altissia, do they?”

I’m terrified, knowing _he_ is involved somehow. His spies are all around us now, his spells tangling the Veil. And now, it is only a matter of time before the lie of my glamour is revealed.

Four things change after that kiss.

Four: I make it my mission to protect Noct, no matter the cost. The next town we visit, I buy the finest weapons I can afford, trade in my robes for tunics, and ensure my spectacles are properly adjusted. He must never know.

* * *

In Lestallum we discover a large contingent of Insomnian refugees—among them several survivors from the Citadel and the estate of Gladio’s family, House Amicitia. From his sister Iris, Lucis’s youngest daemon hunter, we receive word that Queen Marilith has been actively searching for Noctis.

“You look amazing,” she says, “but you should really consider trading your clothes for something less…”

He chuckles. “Conspicuous?”

The grin she returns is shockingly mischievous for someone with her fierce reputation. “I was going to say ‘black,’ but same idea. She’s attacking anyone wearing the royal color.”

This is perfect. More than perfect. I can get out of this before anyone notices my fabrications. “My heart breaks at this,” I say, affecting the deepest sigh I can, “but perhaps it _would_ be the wisest course to abandon your wardrobe and start anew, Noct.”

“No!” His face twists with disbelief, horror. “You’d have me abandon your miracles?”

Is he more foolish than I am? I throw my hands in the air. “You ass, I’d have you save yourself from the daemon who almost killed you!”

“Don’t you get it, Ignis?” Noctis clamps his hands onto my shoulders, stares into my eyes. “ _You’ve_ saved me already. I couldn’t have made it this far without you. The life I’ve lead since you came into it with your magic is more amazing than any life I thought I’d possibly have. Prompto, Gladio—they agree that you’ve changed me for the better, that your powers are far too great to let go. So, no matter what, I’m not giving up you or your clothes. I don’t care how dangerous it is.”

He sounds like a king, and it’s not the glamour talking.

For that reason, I unwisely agree to everything he says.

* * *

The first _magitek_ squadron is just a diversion from Queen Marilith’s southeastern approach. When she arrives, she licks the blade of her largest sword. A twisting scar, almost a mirror of Noctis’s, runs down her face.

“My little prince,” she says, her voice all hiss and spit. “So handsome now. Are you ready to come to me?”

“Noct, no!” I shout.

But he’s already rushing toward her.

Between the four of us, we have eight arms to match her six. That is, we would if the second squadron hadn’t been sent to stop us from advancing, to keep us from helping our friend and king. Fortunately, Marilith can’t seem to hit him thanks to the combination of his speed and Royal Magic; unfortunately, she’s just too big for a human-sized blade to do any significant damage.

“Gladio, Prompto, to me!” I call forth my magics and infuse our weapons with flames strong enough to melt Niflheim armor.

When the few we haven’t killed retreat, we join Noct in battle. I trade my daggers for a polearm, fire for ice, and leap for Marilith’s face.

She screams as I tear into her shoulder, but honestly, she could care less about me. Because she sees what I’ve been trying to distract her from—Noct flying at her from behind. Her enormous coiled body whip-strikes, sends him flying off the outcropping none of us realized we were on and into the water below.

Prompto scrambles to the edge. “Noooct!” He barely has a chance to look into the waves before Marilith is there, two swords converging.

“Oh, no you don’t!” Gladio meets both with his sword, holding her back long enough for Prompto to roll away and fill Marilith’s cheeks with crossbow bolts.

As she claws her face, a black-bladed sword embeds itself in her chest. Suddenly, Noctis is there, standing on the flat and staring into her ruined face. “Your Majesty,” he says, cocking his head, “I’m afraid you’ve waited all this time to die.”

He leaps, pulling the sword from her chest and enlarging the wound. The sword flies from his hand, striking her again and again, and Noctis moves faster than I’ve ever seen. Silver-blue light bursts, coalescing into a dozen or more spectral weapons that circle him like birds, like sentries. They, too, fly out and strike Marilith, and as Prompto, Gladio, and I watch in awed silence, the Naga Queen begins to falter.

“You!” she screams, blood pouring from her mouth. “If I can’t kill you, _he’ll_ kill you!”

“Whoever _he_ is, he can try.” Noctis shrugs. “You tried, and look where it got you.”

It’s the last thing he says before he bisects her from throat to tail, lets out a breathy moan, and collapses into the grass.

* * *

The strain of fighting Queen Marilith forces Noctis into a regression the likes of which Prompto and Gladio haven’t seen in years. He spends the next three days in bed. I rock him through his nightmares, kiss his forehead as he croaks—throat raw, scream-torn—at the visions that slice through the dark behind his eyes. The brief periods he is awake, he can barely tolerate solid foods. I send Gladio to the markets to buy ingredients for the hardiest soups I know, Prompto to the alleys to find spell components. Some of them are one and the same.

I pinch some black salt over my barramundi and wild onion congee as Noctis stirs beneath the sheets. “You think you could do with some rice porridge?”

“Maybe,” he says weakly, sitting up. “Smells amazing. Did you make it?”

“I did.”

“Is there anything you _can’t_ do, Iggy?”

I chuckle, brush sweat-damp bangs off his forehead. “I daresay I’m no good at dice.”

“I’m not either, but now I’m gonna learn just to hustle you. Don’t tell me you caught the fish, too.”

“Heavens, no! I sent Gladio, and he said this was one of your favorites.”

Now Noctis wrinkles his nose. “It is, but you’ve done something to it. Also, you gotta let me catch it for you.”

“All the sudden, this isn’t good enough? What happened to ‘smells amazing’? I’m wounded.” My chuckle betrays me as I push the bowl and spoon into the cupped palms resting in his lap. “I never knew you could fish.”

He takes a bite. “This is good. Really good. Thanks.” Slowly, he eats, staring off with a wistful expression. Finally he says, “My father took me fishing a lot when I was healing. The doctors said something about how it was good for my hand-eye coordination, that fighting the fish would help rebuild my strength, some such thing. Eventually, Sir Clarus—” Noctis pauses, turns to me. “Did you meet him, Gladio’s dad? Head of the Crownsguard, silent bald guy on the council? Anyway, Sir Clarus and Gladio said I needed to do some real training or I’d never get any stronger. So, I stopped fishing all the time.”

Ah, yes, the bodyguard. I nod. “We did meet, though very briefly, and I barely remember him from my run-ins with the council. But it seems rather harsh to make such demands of a healing child.”

“He wasn’t as delicate as you think, Iggy,” Gladio says, walking in from the adjacent room, hand shaking a folded square of paper. “Besides, _you’re_ not telling him how I used to take you on all those outdoor expeditions just so you _could_ fish.”

“Yeah, well, I hadn’t gotten that far.” Noctis smiles sheepishly, scratches the back of his neck. “I mean, there’s a reason why we celebrated you finding yourself on the wrong side of the council, Ignis—because it’s kind of the way we always were. Me getting in trouble, them risking their jobs.”

Prompto pokes his head out from the other room. “The Lucian establishment was definitely not fond of the ‘Nifling’ as their Crown Prince’s companion, and let’s not get into how much they hated that the king let Gladio dictate Noct’s training.”

Gladio nods. “King Regis was always a bit of a radical, though. By the way, I came out to discuss our path to Cape Caem.” He unfolds the paper and tosses it onto the bed. “Prompto and I’ve been looking at the map and thinking about all these ambushes, and we think we have an idea for a detour that’d get the army off our back for a while…”

* * *

It’s been an age since I traveled by chocobo, and it shows. I’m stiff in the saddle, though I remember a time I was as at home in one as I was sewing fine wool. Noctis finds this hilarious. He’s a maddeningly skilled rider. They all are, honestly.

The rest of our journey to Cape Caem is punctuated by teasing, which, despite being largely at my expense, is a welcome change from constant ambushes. Gladio and Prompto seem pleased that our route change has taken us off Niflheim’s radar. And while nothing stops the twilight daemon attacks, their numbers and frequency diminish enough that I know we’re at least temporarily off _his_. Still, I do my best not to let them see how much the long hours astride the birds are quite literally wearing at me.

It’s dusk when we arrive, but we immediately make contact with Monica, the Crownsguard operative charged with arranging our charter. She’s found a private vessel with a sympathetic captain. “Cid,” she tells us, “was an old friend of King Regis. Seems he considers this payback for some old debts to your father and will set sail whenever you want.”

Noct nods. “Then let’s go.”

We leave immediately, take a meal with the crew once we’re clear of the harbor. As soon as I can, I slip away to our quarters. Borrow the salve I prepared for Noctis’s scars, use a little ice magic to cool it, strip from the waist down, and massage it into the blisters.

I’m halfway through soothing the chafe-raw skin of my left thigh when Noctis peers in. “Ignis, why did you—oh. _Oh_. I’m…I’m sorry.” He looks down, away. He’s blushing. In spite of how much we’ve seen of one another—how deep our fingers, tongues, and cocks have traveled inside. _Adorable_.

“Don’t be sorry,” I say with a pained grimace, “be helpful.”

“But I am sorry that I made fun of you.”

“You’re forgiven. Now help me with the right side before I change my mind about forgiveness.”

* * *

Captain Sophiar—“just Cid,” he insists—must surely be the most talented elemental wizard the world has ever known. It’s the only explanation for how winds and currents bend to his will, bringing us to Altissia faster than any ship should.

It concerns me that perhaps he’s seen through the illusion cloaking Noctis.

“Perhaps,” Cid answers when I ask him if he’s been controlling the headwinds, turning the waves. He stands on the bow, gazing out toward the rapidly approaching Altissian docks. “Most of it’s my granddaughter’s work, if you must know. She’s one of those tinkerers, always making her little ‘improvements.’ I don’t think there’s a part of this ship that’s original anymore. Good thing I ain’t sentimental.”

Prompto tugs my sleeve. “Miss Aurum’s skills,” he whispers, “are quite well known within a certain subset of the scientific community.”

“I assume you’re part of that subset, Prompto?”

“Well…” He blushes, freckles standing out starkly against the pink. “I mean, some people didn’t want to listen to her at first because she’s a woman, and I understand that because I’m a Besithia and it happened to me. So, I mean, I’ve kind of idolized her for years.”

“That’s lovely. Have you told her so?”

“Are you kidding? No way! She’d kick my ass!”

Cid nods. “Aye, that she might.”

* * *

M’Lady Camelia Claustra of the Protectorate, head of the massive council that governs Altissia, is as impressed by Noctis as everyone who’s met him has been. My glamour holds yet another day. I am safe for now.

But tomorrow, we will meet M’Lady Claustra in the lobby of the royal suites she’s graciously offered us as accommodations for the night.

Tomorrow, she will escort us to the plaza, where Lunafreya Nox Fleuret, the Oracle-Across-the-Sea, will address the people before proceeding to the ancient Altar of the Tidemother to invoke the gods and anoint Noctis.

And she and the gods will see right through him. Through us. The illusion will be laid bare.

That night, I take my time undressing him. Committing him to memory. Worshipping every inch of moonlit skin. Deep down I know I’ll never see him like this again.

Noct doesn’t understand, of course, and reacts with trembling impatience. By the time I finally unlace his breeches, he’s practically sobbing in frustration. I kiss the lips he’s worried swollen, swallow his cries. “Shh, shh,” I soothe against tear-damp cheeks, take his length into my hand, give it a long, slow stroke. “What can I do for you?”

“ _Gods_ , Ignis,” he moans against my chest, “I need— _ah, yes!_ —inside you, _please_!”

“Is that all?” I can’t resist chuckling as I press kisses to his shoulder, his collarbone, the join of his neck. It’s easy to get lost in this, in him, the way he begs so sweetly. One hand fumbles across the bedside table until it finds the jar of sweet oil I placed there. “Such a hardship, _Your Highness._ ”

His eyes darken, and before I can even open the jar to slick my fingers, he’s stolen it from my grasp and flipped me onto my belly. “Not tonight, Ignis,” says a voice from above and behind, and my skin burns because it’s _that_ voice—the voice of a king, the voice that made me _so fucking reckless_.

“Tonight,” Noctis says, “you’re mine.”

One finger slips into me, then another. I rock back, panting as he works me open, but then I feel hot breath like my own against the small of my back. Hands spreading me wider, lips pressing to my entrance, tongue sliding around and then inside, relentless, _relentless_. By the time I hear him moaning in my ear, “On top, on top, I want you riding me,” I’m asking myself how anyone could take me apart and put me back together so thoroughly.

The second I’m fully seated on Noctis’s cock, my arms braced on either side of his head and his hands holding my waist, I realize he’s staring. His eyes might as well be two night skies filled with impossible stars, as unknowable as they seem in that moment. “No one’s ever told you,” he says as he begins to move, “how beautiful you are.” It’s not a question.

“Noct, really— _oh gods_ —don’t be sentimental,” I say, words sex-slurred as I meet each of his thrusts with a roll of my hips. If I’m honest, though, it’s impossible not to be sentimental when he looks at me like that. When I know that this is the last time I’ll have the opportunity to look at him the same.

“You’re used to making others beautiful,” he continues, “but no one’s— _ah_ —no one’s seen you before, have they? I see you, Ignis. And you’re _radiant_.” Slowly, his fingers dig in, his thrusts strengthen. I meet his body with mine, elbows buckling as I slam back to meet his cock again and again.

Suddenly he’s kissing me, his whisper heavy in my ear: “I’m so close, but I wanna watch you touch yourself. Will you do that? I got you, I promise.”

And as I grin and arch back, taking myself in hand, it’s because I know he’s got me.

I know he does.

I know he _always_ does.

* * *

The Oracle-Across-the-Sea isn’t what I expected.

I thought the youngest Oracle in recorded history would look harder. Like a baker, stone-handed from years kneading dough and tending an oven. A deeply creased brow. And yes, forgive the vanity, but I did expect her to wear spectacles, too. But she’s pretty, fresh-faced, and not that much older than Noctis. It’s a little difficult not to feel intimidated by their history, knowing how much he loves and trusts her.

Regardless of how delicate she may appear, there’s definitely iron in her voice as she speaks to the gathered crowd. Implores the people to support her against an encroaching darkness so dangerous, she must invoke the gods.

“I know you’re scared,” she says, “and you have a right to be. The gods are fickle, dangerous. But I must anoint the next Lucian king.” She smiles at Noctis with the warmth of an old friend, pauses, resumes her speech. “The Empire of Niflheim contests the descendant’s right to the throne and offers its own candidate for anointment. As you all know, the office of the Oracle is neutral, and I therefore must accept all potentials. Both men shall be escorted to the altar to face divine judgement. Such is the ancient way. So it must be when an evil grows so strong, it threatens not just the balance of elements, but the stars themselves.”

Gladio elbows me and Prompto. “What did I tell you about wizards and that balance shit?”

* * *

Lord Ravus, resplendent in Tenebrae’s rich indigos, does not arrive at the path to the altar alone. He is flanked by two guards. And _him_.

Noctis folds his arms. “I thought you said you were a man of no consequence.”

With another dramatic bow, _he_ laughs. “Do forgive an old man his intrigues, Prince Noctis, though I swear I wasn’t lying. I am what I said, though I cannot help that there are simply no consequences for a man like me.”

Prompto glances back and forth between us all. “Who is—”

“Ardyn Izunia,” I answer before the question finishes leaving the blond’s mouth. “Chancellor of Niflheim.”

“Your wizard knew me all this time and said nothing?” Ardyn clicks his tongue as he returns the hat to his head. “My, my! I wonder what other _lies_ he—”

“Are you finished?” Ravus interrupts. “This isn’t a reunion, Ardyn.”

“Quite. Well, what are you waiting for? All young royals to the Oracle now.” He flicks a hand absently toward the altar, noblesse oblige infuriating in its barely concealed arrogance. “Aristocracy and gentry shall remain until called for.”

Noctis and Ravus look at one another, mumbling back and forth as they proceed toward the altar. Neither looks happy, but when Noct wobbles on his walking stick, Ravus snakes an arm around his waist to steady him. This, more than anything, calms me.

The Oracle holds her trident, the symbol of her office, and presses the teeth into each man’s chest. Bids them kneel, drink from her chalice, pray with her. She raises her arms, speaks the ancient words.

Up from the waves, They rise. The Draconian, the Fulgarian, the Infernian, the Glacian, the Archaen, the Hydraean.

The Tidemother Herself, She-Who-Holds-the-Seas, keeper of the Oracle line, floats into the sky. Turns the clouds in gyres. Speaks:

“Oh, Little Flower, you’ve made the gravest of errors.”

“At last!” Ardyn roars as he draws a red sword that appears otherwise identical to Noctis’s. He heaves it toward the gathered gods, and it sinks into Ifrit’s gullet. The Infernian clutches his belly, retching black blood onto the water as infection spreads from the wound.

With a snap of fingers, the red sword returns to Ardyn’s hand. He throws it again, and it drills a hole straight through Shiva’s heart. With a cry and an arm outstretched to Her lover, Ifrit, She collapses into the ocean.

The Infernian flies into a rage and, polluted by Ardyn’s dark magics, turns on His fellow gods.

“Now then,” he drawls as his sword returns again, the sun disappears, and my every nightmare comes true before my eyes, “let’s see what else is left in my way.”

* * *

Ravus’s guards fled the moment I drew my daggers, Gladio his greatsword, Prompto his crossbows. That was…I can’t even recall when. It seems like hours ago— _ages, even_ —but it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes. All I know now is, Gladio and Prompto are both unconscious. My fires are useless. Empowered by the Infernian and all the accursed magics at his command, Ardyn is impervious to heat. And his skill with the sword is just as great as it was back then.

I’m on my back, writhing from the agony of his magics, when he saunters over. Squats down by my side. Plucks one dagger from my hand and fidgets with it absently as he gazes into my eyes. “Oh, dearest Ignis. Would it make you feel better if I say you’ve improved tremendously? That if I weren’t the wizard I am now, you might have stood a chance?”

“ _Adagium_!” I spit, gasping around the curse woven from his True Name.

It does nothing but make him grin with delight. “You remembered! Here I thought all those years in the rock had dulled your mind. But you were always so, so clever. Perhaps now you’ve finally untangled the knot of that spell, having seen your little king's sword and what we both can do.”

“…Caelum…”

“That’s right, my dear, and I’ve lived longer than you—” He must see something in my face because suddenly his own twists with mock compassion. “Oh, you poor innocent boy. You really thought you were my first plaything? Hardly! Merely the first to _survive_ me. Which is why I’ll offer you a choice.” Ardyn digs the point of my dagger under my chin, licks the column of my throat. “Rejoin me. Become my partner again, and we’ll slay the gods and make this world anew. No more bowing to Their wills.”

“…if I refuse?”

Ardyn laughs. “Ignis, Ignis, Ignis—why would you do that? Surely you know a lost cause when you see it. My darling has always done whatever it takes to survive, right?”

He touches my face, his fingers sticky and cold.

I open my mouth to answer—

* * *

_—gods forgive me_

_I’m going to say yes_

_yes Ardyn_

_whatever you say_

_please_

_do whatever you want_

_to me_

_yes_

_gods yes_

_just_

_please_

_please_

_please_

_let Noctis live—_

* * *

—and Ardyn sweeps my dagger from beneath my chin to meet a kukri materializing in a flash of silver-blue. The same light I saw during our fight with Queen Marilith. Only it’s not Noctis wielding this blade; it’s one of Ravus’s guards, a Galahdian man with hair like blackened silver.

“Sorry, Chancellor,” the guard says, “but King Noctis asked a hero to protect this one.”

“How?” Ardyn snarls. “How can you use it? You’re nothing but a commoner!”

“Then you understand _nothing_!” The self-proclaimed hero slashes with his other kukri, throwing Ardyn off-balance long enough to land a kick to his chest and send him flying.

The last thing I hear before I pass out is the Galahdian yell over his shoulder, “Crowe, get the Oracle over here, quick!”

* * *

_—Master Scientia_

_We forgive you_

_and We_

_understand_

_now_

_open your eyes_

_the True King_

_needs_

_the fire_

_only you can light—_

* * *

When I open my eyes, Noctis is crouching behind me. One arm clutches me to his chest, while the other holds his sword point-in-line toward Ardyn, who looms above us both.

“You _can’t have him_ , Ardyn!” he says, his arm tightening.

“Oh, but I already have! Why don’t you ask him now that he’s awake? Go on, Ignis—tell your darling Noctis who you used to belong to, whose bed you used to warm.”

“Shut up,” I rasp.

Ardyn licks his lips and sneers. “Or better yet, why not take off all those pretty glamours you’re using? That’s your game, isn’t it? Dressing up yourself and your little king? You always were the cleverest wiza—”

“It’s not a game!” I scream, tears streaming from my eyes. “I would’ve _died_ to make the magic real! I could’ve left a thousand times, but I didn’t, okay? Noctis is the True King—he made me believe!”

Without warning, my skin erupts in Faefyre. Noctis flinches, releasing me.

Once upon a time, I told him that legends said faeries used it to seduce children, transform them into daemons. But what if the legends were wrong, even backwards? What if the fire never hurt because I’d never found its intended target?

I form two daggers of Faefyre and launch myself at Ardyn. When the first tears a hole into him, he _howls_.

“Ramuh’s beard, what _is_ that?” a nearby voice asks.

“Don’t just stand there gaping, Libertus!” Noctis says, leaping back into the fight. “Press the advantage! Hey, Iggy, lend us some of that!”

Even in the chaos of battle, Noct accepts the Faefyre as tenderly as he did the first time. The two guards—two of the late king’s unaccounted-for Glaives, I realize—are not so delicate. Still, they waste no time once they have it. The so-called hero flicks across the battlefield almost as quick as Noctis, slashing and dashing before Ardyn can react. The other, a larger Galahdian with brown hair, is more calculating, using Royal Magic to disappear and deliver devastating wounds with his kujang.

And then there is Noctis, surrounded by his spectral armory, wielding his father’s—no, _his_ —sword with preternatural focus and speed. He doesn’t look like the young man who defeated Queen Marilith anymore, but someone far stronger, wiser, and sadder. How has he aged so quickly?

* * *

If we were fighting anyone but the godslayer Ardyn, an immortal wizard born of the same line and wielder of the same Royal Magics as the True King, he’d be dead already.

Instead, we’ve merely sent him to his knees and torn the glamour from his body, revealing the oozing, corruption-ridden body beneath.

“You…you _interlopers_!” he hisses, ichor oozing from him like miasma. “Lucis is mine! The gods are mine! I should have killed you, Ignis, the second you defied me. And _you_ , little king, you’ll never—”

( _Master Scientia, this is Crowe._ ) The woman’s words, as clear as any spoken in an empty room, drown Ardyn out. She must be the third Glaive, a wizard using Wind’s Whisper to reach me. ( _I’m going to send you the Oracle’s Trident. She says to infuse it with your fire and give it to King Noctis. He knows what to do. On my mark—now!_ )

The trident appears above me, and I snatch it from the air. I wave my palm over the shaft to coat it in purple-pink flames. Spin the trident around my body and extend it toward the king.

 _My_ king.

He hurls his sword and grabs the trident, bolting toward Ardyn faster than I ever believed his legs could carry him.

“I’m not finished yet!” Ardyn shouts, reaching to draw his sword. Except, it’s not there.

“Yes, you are,” Noct says with the finality of a royal decree. Ardyn can do nothing as Noctis runs him through, pins him into the stone floor of the Tidemother’s promenade.

A few feet away, the brown-haired Galahdian materializes into existence, holding Ardyn’s sword. He tosses it to the other Galahdian, saying, “All yours, Nyx.”

The one called Nyx catches the red blade in one hand, flips Noctis’s black blade in the other. He glances to Noctis, who gives him a single nod. He approaches, whispers, “May the Draconian catch you,” and with two horizontal slashes—one from each sword—removes Ardyn’s head. And as his body slumps down the shaft of the trident, the dark blotting out the sun begins to clear.

* * *

We both end up in bed. Well, _beds_. Not together, next to one another. We’re injured, fatigued. Noctis is particularly exhausted, much like after his battle with Queen Marilith. I regret that I can’t cook to feed him, but those around us take very good care.

I find out more about what happened at the altar and while I was out. Ravus had filled Noctis on the basics: his Glaives were present, ready to take the Oath of Fealty, to share his power and fight beside him. He apologized that he could do no more but wished him luck and promised that Tenebrae would always be a friend to Lucis.

“You know Ravus is missing an arm,” Libertus had said over a plate of griffon breast and garlic. “He can wear his _magitek_ one, but he still hurts every day. He’s got just enough of that Oracle-brand magic to power it or suppress his pain. One or the other, not both.”

I found myself somehow even more comforted by Ravus’s presence at the altar.

Apparently, Prompto, Gladio, and I had kept Ardyn occupied long enough to allow Crowe to slam down a Barrier spell to protect everyone from the warring gods, let Lunafreya finish the anointing, and even give Noctis time to perform a hasty-but-effective Oath of Fealty on Libertus and Nyx.

Nyx had grinned ear to ear when he brought up his heroic entrance and said, “Now’s the time to thank me.”

I didn’t even pause. “Thank you.”

“Oh gods, now it’s gonna go to his head,” Crowe had rolled her eyes, giving Nyx’s shoulders a playful shove. “He’s the _worst_ , Ignis, I hope you realize that.”

While I was unconscious, she and Lunafreya had patched us up. Once Prompto and Gladio came to, they opted to go with the two women to calm the rampaging gods. Ardyn, of course, had fought Noctis and his Glaives quite viciously, striking his way toward me whenever he could—knowing hurting me would hurt Noct.

Which is why when I finally regained consciousness, he’d been holding me.

He was shielding me.

This was, of course, _before_ he knew what and who I was.

* * *

It’s late and no one is around when I hear Noctis whisper into the dark, “Is it true, Ignis? What Ardyn said about you?”

“Yes.”

“Why’d you do it?”

“Noct, you must understand.” I take a deep breath, spend an age exhaling it. “I was different back then—angry, impetuous, and so very, very _bored_. Ardyn found me, the youngest graduate in the College of Magic’s history, and promised me all the secrets of creation. When it seemed he actually had them to give, I was deliriously happy. Was it any wonder I developed a crush?”

He’s quiet for a while before he asks, “How old were you when he…?”

“Does it matter? He used me. Then one day, I discovered the curse using his True Name, _Adagium_ , and I saw his real face beneath the glamour. That’s when I knew he was something dark and terrible. We fought, and he came this close to killing me. But instead of finishing me off, he imprisoned me in crystal.”

“Why didn’t he kill you?”

This is the question that has haunted me since the day I regained consciousness inside the crystal. What had stayed his hand? Was it some sick desire to keep my body as a trophy? A long-forgotten flicker of humanity? Divine intervention? “I…don’t know. But he didn’t. It took me ten years to fix all the internal damage and figure out how to break the spell.”

“You don’t look much older than me, though.”

“The crystal kept me in a kind of stasis.” I touch the scars around my left eye, the bridge of my nose. “I was never able to fix these, though.”

“Ignis.” His voice is so close, and I realize with a start Noctis is standing at my bedside. “Didn’t you know? I’ve _been_ seeing them, and I love them because they're part of you.” He touches the scar on my lip and in the low light, I see him smile softly.

 _That little mark on your bottom lip._ His confession.

“When did you—”

“When you started wearing your spectacles. It broke the glamour for me. I guess…you started being _you_.”

“Then you know,” I say, turning away from his touch, “that there’s no magic in what I do.”

“What are you saying?” Noctis takes my face in his hands and presses a kiss to my forehead. “You made others see what my father always saw, what he tried to make _me_ see. And yours were the first clothes I ever wore that didn’t hurt to wear. Do you even know how much of a _relief_ that was?”

“Then…you forgive me?”

Noctis laughs and climbs into my bed. “Only if you let me sleep beside you. Do you know how much I _like_ having you next to me?”

* * *

Our entourage spends what seems like an eternity in Altissia assisting Lunafreya and M’Lady Claustra with the repair efforts, as the divine clash had done significant damage to the city and its docked ships. Thankfully, there were very few casualties.

I opt to stay with Ravus for much of it—taking measurements and casts, designing patterns, and sewing garments fit for travel. Even though I expect he has his own valets and clothiers at home, I’m certain they aren’t half as good as me and will need all my notes and models to understand the alterations they should be doing for him.

We discuss his _magitek_ arm at length—how it works, its abilities and limitations, the energies used to power it. I remember Noctis’s elemental absorber, mention to Prompto that perhaps, with some development, it could be integrated into the artificial arm to boost Ravus’s magical abilities.

Prompto favors Noct with a knowing smirk. “I dunno, Your Highness, you think maybe Ignis found the right person?”

“Probably,” he says with a sheepish smile. “Ignis is good at everything.”

“Except dice,” I remind him.

“Is that right?” Ravus says, quirking his brows. “Well, I’m _very_ good at dice. Would you care to learn?”

* * *

Insomnia has been many things to me, but never a home. For the first time, seeing the city’s outer walls feels like coming home. I glance out of the carriage window—sun disappearing to red just behind the Citadel—then back at Noctis. He slumps against Gladio’s shoulder, little puffs of breath stirring his tousled hair.

“He’s asleep, isn’t he?” Gladio whispers.

I nod.

“Good, because I wanna tell you something private.” He sighs. “When Noct almost died, people thought King Regis was crazy because he’d always gone on and on about how his son was destined for greatness. Even my dad thought so for a while. But I’ve been talking to Noct and the Glaives, learning about their plans, what he told them, and I’m realizing the king knew a lot more than he told me or Prompto. And I think he knew about you. Maybe not all of it, but the important stuff.” Gladio turns his head, facing me as he strokes Noct’s hair gently. “What I’m trying to say is, I think he knew Noct needed you, and you needed him, and that’s what matters. And we’re all glad he has you, Iggy.”

“I…” Of course I knew they knew, but no one had said anything. I’d assumed they’d done so out of deference to their king and savior, overlooking his one character flaw. This, though—this is something I never expected. “Thank you. Truly. It means a lot to hear that.”

“You’re welcome. Oi, want me to wake him for ya? He should probably see that sunset.”

“No, not yet,” I say. “He has a lot of sunsets ahead of him.”

“But this is your first one home as consorts. That’s important, right?”

It is. Or it should be. Still, I look at Noct's sleep-soft face and know waking can wait until we reach the Citadel. Until I can offer him my hand instead of his walking stick to step out of the coach, onto the royal grounds. Until we can enter our home together, take dinner together, go to bed together. And while Gladio and the others may know this, it’s not something I know how to say yet—not exactly. I’m still working on that. For now, I shrug and reply, “There are more important things.”

**Author's Note:**

> Twitter: [@lucianlibrarian](https://twitter.com/lucianlibrarian)  
> Discord: starryfox#7213


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